


Next Time, We'll Do Better (there won't be a next time)

by tippertot



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Any or all of these could be read as romantic or platonic, Female Pronouns for the Reader, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post Game, mostly comfort, whatever your heart desires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 10:01:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13269108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tippertot/pseuds/tippertot
Summary: “Volfred?”“Yes?” he asks, not looking up.“Will you write my final words?”His pen stills, as does Pamitha's attending to her hair.“...When the time comes, and only if you wish it.”“It has, and I do.”





	Next Time, We'll Do Better (there won't be a next time)

Volfred reads aloud what he has recorded of the Reader. She lies still, the Beyonder Crystal tucked in the crook of her arm. Her head rests in Pamitha's lap as the woman plays with her hair, combing and smoothing it with delicate strokes. She is immobile now, her transformation to a self with horns and hooves interrupted and incomplete. Her body was too weak to handle the change. She is dying.

But though her lungs and mouth could no longer form words, the voice within her mind was as clear and strong as in years past, if not more so. Perhaps this was a comfort to her caregivers. Perhaps it made her withering state seem all the more cruel.

“It is so well-written, Volfred. It is beautiful, eloquent. But I feel you may have overstated me. You write my words and actions as if those of a Scribe.”

He sits at her bedside, still editing, his quill making notes and scratching out words. “Not at all, my kin. Your choices were vital in the victory over the Commonwealth. Having a recorded history of your life for generations to come will help the Union understand the sacrifices that were made for the sake of freedom.”

“My history is not only one of sacrifice, and not nearly as noble as your words suggest. Will you write of my selfish, incessant striving towards triumph, at all costs?

“Perhaps not with those words, but yes.”

“Will you write of my deliberate antagonism towards you, before you accepted me as Reader of this Triumvirate, and even more so after?”

Pamitha grins at that. Volfred rolls his eyes. “Perhaps I should, my girl.”

“Will you write of the evening that Rukey and I stole Pamitha's moonshine, and were found a mile from the blackwagon searching and calling out for the Beyonder Crystal, certain I had lost it despite it being carried within my pack?”

“ _Certainly_ not,” Volfred says, exasperated. Pamitha laughs loudly. Sandra's words are projected to the Reader, “I remember, you asked me if _I_ had seen it, and I told you that you must have dropped it in the sea. Lovely Reader, you nearly started _wailing_ at that.”

The Reader chuckles, and sighs contentedly. Bertrude enters the wagon then, with Tariq behind her carrying a tray of medicinal tea. Volfred smiles up at him. “Hello, old friend.”

“Greetings, Volfred. And to you, Reader and Pamitha.” With the Rites ended, the herald no longer traveled with them, but he still paid a visit now and then.

“Ah, Tariq, just in time, it is good to see you again.” the Reader says. Bertrude takes the tea and she and Pamitha carefully drip it into the Reader's mouth. She can barely swallow, but it soothes the dryness of her tongue and throat. Tariq sits on the floor of the blackwagon and whispers a conversation with Volfred. Once the tea is finished and the Reader cleaned up, Bertrude goes back outside to tend to the fire. She expects the woman does not like to see her in this state, but says nothing of it.

They are all quiet for a while. The Reader's tired eyes watch the ink stain the sap's writing paper as he returns to his notes. It is beautiful. The lines, the shape of the words themselves, are so beautiful.

“Volfred?”

“Yes?” he asks, not looking up.

“Will you write my final words?”

His pen stills, as does Pamitha's attending to her hair.

“...When the time comes, and only if you wish it.”

“It has, and I do.”

Volfred falters. He stares at her, looking for a lie, or the punchline to a joke he didn't understand. He begins to say something, and stops. Pamitha looks away, staring at the floor, but pulls the Reader slightly closer on her lap.

Eventually, Volfred takes a long, somewhat shaky breath. “Very well.” He takes out a fresh sheet of paper, re-inks his pen. “What would you have me write?”

She ponders for a moment, then says “Write my final words as these.” She pauses as if grounding herself. Then, continues;

“Volfred Sandalwood is a really, really great friend. Just the best. He is, like, the best kind of guy around and you all should give him the BIGGEST high-five when you see him.”

Volfred rolls his eyes and sighs, and Pamitha does her best to hide her laughter. She continues, “As a matter of fact - Volfred, be sure that you are getting this down – as a matter of fact, he and I are such good friends, I like to call him Freddy. Because that's just what you call a pal as great and handsome as he.”

Pamitha gives up any attempt at discretion and laughs loudly. She leans forward, nuzzling against the Reader's forehead, and says through giggles “You are making me jealous, Reader, what should he write about me?”

“Oh, right, right! Volfred, write this too. Write that even as I took my dying breath, I said 'But my _other_ best friend is Pamitha Theyn. She is just swell, the swelliest even. She has such pretty hair, and-'”

“ _Swelliest?_ ” Pamitha exclaims.

Volfred puts up a hand. “No. Stop. My limit is at completely nonsensical words. I am not writing that in my book.”

The Reader laughs, then, joyous. “Of course, how undignified. You must not sing my praises, my friend, but speak my truth!” And although her face can barely twitch, her smile is as clear to them as her voice within their minds, and her affection for them plays behind her words like ambiance.

“I love you, Volfred Sandalwood.”

The sap lets out a short breath, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “...I should hope so, for all that I put up with.”

“Then come, and kiss me goodnight.”

He sits there, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Is it time then, truly?”

“It is.”

He stands up, and makes his way to her bedside. Pamitha sits upright again to give him room. He leans down, and kisses her forehead gently.

He whispers, “I am sorry-”

“No. Try again.”

“...Thank you, my kin.”

“That's better.”

The sap straightens again. As he does, the blackwagon's door opens. Tariq, who had slipped out unnoticed during their conversation, returns with Bertrude following him. She does not enter far into the wagon, but stands by the door, looking away and twisting the end of her cape in her hands.

At her entrance, the Reader declares, “Bertrude, I love you, I love you, I love you! You are starlight! Without equal!”

She frowns, and narrows her eyes with a pained expression. “Nnnnrghh, speak thy not of this. We have been unable to cure thee. It is mockery.”

The Reader's voice changes now. Low, serious. “Bertrude. Please come here.”

The bog-crone hesitates. She eventually moves forward, while Volfred sits down again and quietly watches. Pamitha looks up with a small, encouraging smile.

Although unable to move, the Reader's gaze reaches the woman, full of fondness. “My dear one, have I _ever_ mocked you? Did not Gol Golathanian save Soliam Murr, and many a time? And yet neither were granted immortality for it. Bertrude, I will die. But you have saved me, again and again, you whom I have adored. I love you with my entirety.”

She says nothing. Tears well up in her eyes, and spill over.

“ _Bertrude._ ” the Reader whispers. Pamitha lifts one of the dying woman's hands, gives it over to the bog-crone. She takes the Reader's hand, presses it to her own cheek, and cries.

The blackwagon is hushed, and warm. It grows slowly darker as evening clouds roll in, and a light rain begins to patter against the roof. Volfred lights the oil lamp and a few candles.

Eventually, still held by Bertrude, the Reader speaks up again. “Okay, Pamitha, now it is your turn.”

Pamitha smirks. “I wondered if I would ever come up.”

This time, she speaks privately, her words heard only by the harp. “I will seem a hypocrite for this, and I have said it a time before, but I wish to speak it anyway. I am sorry, Pamitha. I am sorry I did not free you. I am sorry I chose others to take your place in liberation.”

Pamitha smiles, and leans forward to whisper in her ear. “Such hypocrisy. But I'll forgive you. For a few more years down here with you, it was _almost_ worth it.” But she failed, or perhaps did not bother, to hide her thoughts from the Reader.  <It was _entirely_ worth it. >

The Reader sighs. “I love you, Pamitha.”

She kisses her, softly, on the lips. “I love you too, dear Reader.”

For a moment, the Reader lies there silently, basking in Pamitha's warmth. But only for a moment.

“That will do, then, and very nicely. Tariq?”

“Aye, Reader?”

“Would you mind too much to play us now to sleep?”

“Not at all, Reader.” He sits once again on the floor, lute in his lap. He begins strumming a peaceful, quiet melody.

“Thank you, Tariq. Goodnight, my friends.”

Pamitha adjusts herself so that she is lying beside the Reader, and drapes a warm wing over her. “Sleep well, dear,” she whispers. Bertrude lets the Reader's hand rest again on the bed, but keeps hold of it.

Volfred sits before his written notes, now with several lines and entire paragraphs crossed out. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “Speak your truth...” he mutters, then sighs. He sets aside his current page for a fresh one, and begins to write anew. “Reader, you will be my ruin.”

But she does not hear him.

The Beyonder Crystal seeks her.

******

The Reader stands, upright, on a playing field of black paper. Specifically, she stands on her toes. Here, within the confines of the Beyonder Crystal's court, her ailments do not impede her. She takes advantage of the opportunity to flutter and flap her hands at her sides, to bounce and pirouette and take stock fully of her limbs. Although she cannot really feel them as she once could in reality outside this crystal, the movement comforts her.

She pauses only when a celestial orb is flung her direction. She catches it, and leaps to the side instinctively, but no aura blast comes.

Before her stands Sandra the Unseeing, green and gold and resplendent. She smirks. “No need to fear, my lovely Reader, I have no wish to banish my only company. You should be glad, too. Your dodging is just a tad rusty.”

The Reader tosses back the orb. “It has been a while. I am out of practice.”

“Quite.” Sandra says, and is silent. They pass the orb, one to the other, listening the the quiet strumming around them. Although they could not hear the world outside the crystal, the Minstrel's music followed them, distant but clear. After a few passes, the Reader catches and holds the celestial thing, rotating it in her grasp, staring at its surface.

“Are you mad at me?” she whispers.

Sandra raises a brow, her hands on her hips. “Why Reader, what ever would make you think I was angry? After all, it is only just that I live out my sentence in isolation. It is by the mercy of your beloved Scribes I am allowed do so now for all eternity. I should think I will enjoy the peace and quiet.”

She tries to hold the orb tighter, but it resists her, hovering inches from her palms. “Please do not be afraid. Please. I'm sorry.”

Sandra frowns, and holds out her hands. The Reader pauses, then returns the celestial object to her. She holds it near her head and paces slowly down the field, and asks, “Imagine, if you would, that you were in my position. How would you spend your days?”

The Reader falters, hands twisting and fluttering by her chest, then says in a rush, “Do you know how to read?”

Sandra raises an eyebrow “One hasn't much use for text if one cannot see it, Reader.”

“Volfred could find some sort of solution. You could pass the time well with a book, whole hours can go by without noticing. You could read. Please.” Her fists clench, and she switches to tapping too hard on the side of her head, trying to release the energy pent up within her. “Volfred could read to you. He could read to you. He has books. He writes books. Please, Sandra, he can write more books, he-”

“Reader!” Sandra shouts, and holds up the orb, winding up to throw it. “Go long!”

She snaps to attention as the celestial object flies over her head. She sprints to catch it, but is too late, and picks it up off the ground.

Sandra calls from the other end of the field, waving her arms in the air. “Over here, lovely Reader, hurry!”

The Reader runs across the field, until she is close enough to toss back the orb. The running feels good. It leaves her breathing hard, through clearer lungs than she can remember ever having.

Sandra holds the orb again, and gives the other woman a moment to catch her breath. Then, she demands, in a gently scolding way, “Why are you upset? You are the one dying. My problems are of little concern.”

The Reader exhales slowly, and rubs her face with her palms. “Your problems are the only concern I have left. Everything else is resolved.”

Sandra puts an offended hand to her chest. “Do you think I have become weak, Reader? Do you think that, after existing without you in this _benevolent_ crystal for 837 years, I won't know how to do so again?”

She lowers her hands to flutter again at her sides, more relaxed this time. “Weak? No. You have glory such that even the Scribes would lock you away to preserve it.”

Sandra throws her head back and laughs. “Is that how we are telling my tale now?”

That earns a grin from the Reader. “Not weak, no. But perhaps you have grown soft.”

Sandra sighs, then shrugs. “Perhaps. And who would I have to blame for that, other than you, O lovely Reader.” She drops the orb at her feet sits down on the ground beside it.

The Reader kneels as well, feet away, and reaches out a hand uselessly. She groans, and says “This is frustrating. If I could only touch you...”

The apparition smirks. “How fresh, dear Reader, I am scandalized! But no, what kind of punishment would it be to allow your prisoner any such desire?”

They sit together for a time, with no sound but distant lute's playing. It is peaceful. The Reader's eyelids are heavy, but she is not ready to sleep just yet.

In time, Sandra asks her, quietly, “Are you afraid?”

The Reader watches her own fingers tap against her knees. “Somewhat, I suppose. It's like standing at the edge of the pyre. You know it will not hurt you, but you still have that fear, that apprehension. Your momentum and adrenaline push you through, however.”

Sandra looks over to the woman, head tilted curiously “Then, do you wish to die?”

This one takes longer to answer. Eventually, she replies “Does one ever want a good narrative to end? The heart is filled with hypocrisy. It desires a story that is satisfying, and conclusive, yet never-ending. We learn to accept that we cannot have both.”

Sandra smirks, a little grimly, at that “Speak for yourself.” She mutters. Then; “So, if you do not wish for death, what do you wish for?”

She lays down on her back, and drapes an arm over her eyes. “What have I ever wished for, but victory?” she replies with a huff, as if admitting some self-evident truth.

Sandra chuckles, picks up the orb, and stands. “How about one more Rite then, for old time's sake.”

The Reader doesn't move, and says from her place on the floor “...I am tired, Sandra. I haven't much time.”

“A quick one, then.”

She sighs, and stands up with effort. “A quick one. Set the pyres to half their usual intensity, and I'll join you.”

Sandra grins devilishly. “Your wish is my command, dear Reader. Catch!” She tosses the orb, and the Reader has to leap to grab hold of it. When she lands, she is caught by the tail-end of an aura blast, and banished to the dark.

She returns blinking, and can feel the warmth of celestial flames behind her. She stands. Two wyrms, like ghosts, appear at her sides. They salute her, and she smiles, salutes them in turn. Across and yards away, Sandra stands before her own pyre, a demon at her left and right.

“Such an imbalanced field!” the Reader calls.

“Of course, dear Reader. With you on one side, the field could never be balanced. Besides, who is the Reader of the Nightwings to speak about unfair advantage?” The Reader laughs. “Now, pay attention, and best not let my teammates here score!”

They do not compete so much play together, utilizing uncouth strategies rather than gaming to their strengths. They attempt to toss in every shot, whether inches from the opposing pyre or halfway across the field. The Reader and her teammates deposit the orb in a corner and defend it for several minutes, making no attempt to move it until the three of them are banished, and Sandra's demon takes the point and extinguishes the pyre by half in one go. At times, they ignore the orb completely, and chase each other about the field to the sound of the Minstrel's lute and their own laughter, feinting and dodging and sprinting even when unnecessary. The Reader's wyrms score thrice in a matter of seconds, leaving the flame guttering. In a final play, Sandra camps her opponent's pyre, banishing both of her wyrms, and the Reader in turn takes both demons with a single aura toss. They find each other standing on opposite sides of the pitch from whence they started. And the Reader has the orb.

“Sandra!” She shouts.

“I don't want to hear it, Reader!” But she is grinning.

“Fine.” She says “But you should have Volfred find a way that you can read!”

“Absolutely not.” She replies. The Reader smiles, and bows deeply to the woman. She blows her a kiss in turn.

The Reader turns, orb in hand, and faces the pyre. She hesitates, but only briefly. She leaps into the flames.

The Minstrel strikes a major chord, and the music fades away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Reader opens her eyes.

“I am dead. My body is dead. Why am I still here?”

They are not on the practice field any longer, but now kneeling on some vacant, unknown cliffside. She turns and looks at Sandra on her right, whose face is awash with the most horrible dread that the Reader has ever seen. “You're trapped.” the ghostly woman whispers. “You're trapped in here with me.”

She is interrupted by the sudden roar of water rushing past them. Rushing, upwards, past them.

The Reader closes her eyes, and a growing grin threatens to tear her face in two. She stands, and mutters “Who says the Scribes have no mercy...” as she strides over to the woman and, no auras to impede them, takes her face in her hands.

Sandra, shocked by the sudden touch, almost pulls away. She feels so real. Her skin, her hands, they feel so close, so real.

“Sandra!” the Reader loudly declares. Sandra can hear as if sung her smile, the sparkle in her eye. Then, more quietly, more intimately,“Are you ready?” She puts their foreheads together.

Sandra can feel the enthusiasm boiling hot and nearly bursting within the woman's chest. “...What?” She can feel her warmth. She can feel the warmth her breath on her face. It is too much.

The Reader pulls back, moves her grip to the woman's shoulders. “Scribes, stars, witness!” She shouts.

And then with such joy, such love, such vehement triumph it rings through the space, she roars “I give my freedom so that you may yet have yours!”

With a shove, Sandra topples back, is caught by the river flowing up, and ascends.

******

Sandra falls to her knees in the blackwagon, clutching the Beyonder Crystal in her arms. It is cold. The room is warm. The wooden floor is hard, her clothes are soft, her teeth are clenched and her eyes clenched and burning and cheeks wet and lungs full of air and it is too much. It is too much.

A voice rings out, and she can see in her mind's eye the Reader, dressed in white and arms outstretched before the rising falls.

“Witness!” The Reader screams, her voice filling the wagon and everything around it as if by the voice of the stars themselves. “Sandra, the Unseeing! Sandra, Bound To No-One and Nothing! Sandra, the Free! THIS IS VICTORY!” Her voice is too loud. The people around her are too loud. Sandra can hardly bear the feeling of air rushing in and out of her throat and lungs, too fast. But she clings to the orb. It hums with energy.

“Breathe, Sandra. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. And do me a favor.” The Reader turns to face the falls. “Tell Volfred to teach you to read.” With that, and a smile, she pitches herself into the waters.

There is a sharp sound, like blinding light, then one of rushing wind. Then nothing.

The crystal lies in Sandra's grasp devoid of color, and covered in tiny spiderweb cracks.

Sandra laughs, strangled and weak. She coughs, and laughs again. Someone puts a hand on her back. She raises the crystal above her head, triumphant, and smashes it into the ground, sending shards as small as sand across the wooden floor.

She manages to whisper, just barely, “Thank you, thank you, Reader,” before she falls unconscious.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my friends on the SGG discord for listening to me yell about my dumb OCs! (I'm Tori over there BTW).


End file.
